Abecedarian for the Brightest Lights in Town

An ordinary house the rest of the year,

but in December it becomes its brightest self.

Computer-automated synchronized 

display. My husband and I park as close as we can

each year, turn off our headlights,

flip the station to 96.9. Each song pulses

green and red—trees, decorations,

house. Fireworks finale every four minutes.

I ask my husband if the neighbors think they’re

jerks. He notes their blackout blinds. The owners seem

kind on their website. Still—it’s so much. Archway

lights leapfrog the yard. Something called a

MegaFlake suspends over the garage,

new this year: Waterjet cut aluminum with

over a thousand digital pixels! the website

proclaims. Wreath on the front door—so

quiet amidst the chaos, I almost miss it. A

row of low-set snowmen take turns

strobing, duck duck goose. Real evergreen

trees, a fake wire tree topped with a star,

undressed bare-branched trees—all twinkling, all

vibrant. The owners call this a gift on their

website, and it is. Look beyond the gaudy Merry

X-Mas sign, beyond the excess. Along the

yard’s perimeter, a track of lights race like a train

zooming. Then they all flash on. All flash off. It’s magic.

 

 

New Year’s Eve

No more resolutions. Too much

pressure. I quit. Time is sand

slipping through

the plastic hourglasses

in Boggle and Taboo,

names that seem ominous now.

I used to live for others.

I bought into a curated timeline.

Time is sand slipping through

my bare legs—box,

not beach. Backyard view,

not ocean or mountain. Cable-knit, 

not cashmere. I no longer want

fantasy. I want real. I want true.

Finally, I love my life

as it is. But time is sand

slipping through my fingers.

I can’t stop it. Oh, how I want to.